


Sustaining Possibilities

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And Freud, And scotch, Gen, Hannigram Holiday Gift Exchange 2016, Lots of Food, M/M, Power Plays, Student/Teacher AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8965354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: A gift fic for sky-blue-siha who indicated interest in power plays and AUs. Will Graham is a graduate student at a small New England university and the acclaimed Hannibal Lecter is his dissertation adviser. Will's dissertation reveals his empathetic connections to murderers and Hannibal uses that for his own ends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays to everyone and especially to sky-blue-siha! I hope you like this! 
> 
> The discussion of flirtation is not my own. It is taken from my reading of On Flirtation by Adam Philips.

Will paused in the doorway, a line creasing the flesh between his brows. On his desk sat a shiny red apple. He approached it hesitantly, picking it up gingerly by the stem, and eyeing it warily. The rest of the students moved past him in a blur. Unsure, Will carefully returned the apple to the desk and chose another desk. 

He knew instinctively that the apple was for him. That someone had left it for him, thinking about him while shopping. Will shifted in his seat, a pendulum of light in his mind as he saw this person walking through the aisles late at night, the overhead fluorescents burning bright, highlighting harsh lines, wheels on the cart squeaking as they pushed the cart up and down the sterile aisles. And seeing that shiny waxy red apple, picking it up and thinking of Will Graham.

Will shuddered and wiped the sweat off his brow as his professor strode into the room and placed his briefcase next to the lectern. 

“Good morning class,” he greeted in his low voice. “Today we will be looking at what it means to flirt with someone. Please open up your reading from last night.” He didn’t look up from his notes before he strode across the room and began writing on the chalkboard. 

“Please, what do we know about flirting from our reading?,” Dr. Lecter asked, turning around to face the students. Will sucked in his breath. Dr. Lecter’s steady gaze landed on Will as the other students shuffled around noisily, moving papers, chair legs screeching across tile floors as they reached for their bags. 

“Will,” he said softly. Will blew out his breath and closed his eyes, pushing his glasses back up his nose. 

“Flirtation, according to Freud, is a safe exploration of the unknown. It blurs boundaries, it makes things uncertain. Flirtation is about what it means to sustain interest in another person,” Will hurriedly said. Dr. Lecter cocked his head.

“But doesn’t that make flirtation a form of sado-masochism? A modest expose of excitement? Desire for desire as a kind of torture? There is a sense of lack of completion in flirting.” 

“Do you need completion to flirt?,” Will countered curiously. “Flirting isn’t about risk taking or closing desire, it is about sustaining the possibilities of them.” 

“Doesn’t flirtation mean no actual serious choices are made?,” another student jumped in. Dr. Lecter turned his perceptive gaze from Will to the other student and Will sank into his seat. 

 

Will walked down the stairs at the tail end, reluctant to go to his next course. As a graduate student, he juggled teaching and coursework of his own. He didn’t particularly feel excited about heading down the hall to his section of Psych 101. 

“Will,” Dr. Lecter commanded. Will paused on the threshold and hesitated. He could continue, could ignore the call. 

“Will.” It came again, gently, insistent. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Will pivoted to watch Dr. Lecter snapping his briefcase shut.

“You have your section today yes?,” he began idly. Will nodded. He was one of Dr. Lecter’s teaching assistants but worked assiduously to never be alone with the man. Dr. Lecter paused to examine Will.

“Why didn’t you eat the apple?” He sounded genuinely curious. 

“Why did you give me the apple?,” Will retorted almost angrily. 

“You are too thin, Will. You never join me for dinner with the other TAs.” 

“Perhaps I find their company tedious.”

“Perhaps you do. Which is why I am suggesting you come over for dinner tonight?” Will blinked owlishly at the man in his dangerously fashionable plaid suits and erect carriage, the European air he carried as he strode down the halls of the small liberal arts university.

“Um, would that be wise?”

Dr. Lecter walked across the room to him. He tucked one hand in his pocket and looked down at Will. “We will be colleagues soon, Will. See it as an opportunity to discuss your dissertation with me.  You owe me a conversation about that at least.”

“Is that a threat?,” Will demanded raspily. Dr. Lecter smiled thinly.

“It’s an offer. Dinner is promptly at seven. Don’t be late, Will. It’s rude.” 

 

Will stumbled through the rest of his day, unsure exactly of what he taught to his Psych 101 students (the syllabus said “variations of consciousness” but that could mean anything) and sat sullenly during his office hours. He drove his rusted VW home, the old Rabbit coughing in the cool autumn air and spitting it back into the cabin. Will gazed around his small studio apartment as night fell. At the small stove rarely used except for heating up cans of soup. At the tiny twin bed crammed into the corner under the windows. The bottles of whiskey on the closed fireplace mantle. His diet was more rye, corn mash, and sugar with a sprinkling of Lucky Charms than salads and pork loin, or whatever it was Dr. Lecter served when Will joined the TAs at his home. 

He didn’t want to say aloud that being alone with Hannibal Lecter made him uncomfortable. His skin itched under Dr. Lecter’s steady gaze, his heart beating erratically, his words stuck in his throat. He hated how his palms sweated around him.

If Will didn’t know his own tastes better, he would think he had a crush on the man. 

He stared blankly at one wall as the clock ticked closer to seven. He thought about not going. He thought about the disappointment in Dr. Lecter’s maroon eyes. Sighing, Will gathered his coat and his unopened pint of Glenlivet before climbing into his rusty car. 

 

Dr. Lecter’s home was tucked away in a cul de sac off the main roads in the small New England town. Will pulled into the driveway and frowned, shivering his car. He debated backing out, his palms sticking to the steering wheel. His heart skipped and he inhaled sharply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through his mouth. Just as he learned in his sessions with his therapist to cope with his anxiety. 

Brushing his hands on his slacks, Will got out of his car and walked up the walkway, artistically lined with small trees and mums. He rang the bell and he barely waited a minute before the door opened and Dr. Lecter beamed at him.

“Will, you came,” he greeted. Wordlessly, Will thrusted the bottle of Scotch at him and Dr. Lecter took it. 

“Something for dinner,” Will mumbled.

“I can see you are in fact surviving on Scotch alone,” Hannibal observed. Will shrugged, his shirt too loose on his frame. Hannibal beckoned him to follow. 

“Please take a seat. It is fortunate that you brought this. I was going to make us a cocktail but this will go well with dinner,” Hannibal said as he ushered Will into the dining room. 

“What did you prepare?,” Will asked as he sniffed the fragrant air 

“Flank steak stuffed with peppers, blue cheese, and and spinach,” Hannibal replied. He lifted up the scotch. “Do you prefer it straight or on the rocks?”

“I drink it straight but I guess I’ll be refined enough to put it in a glass,” Will replied deadpan. Hannibal smiled slightly, a tug at the corner of his lips before pouring two fingers worth of the amber liquid into cut glass tumblers. He handed it to Will, his fingers brushing against Will’s knuckles. Will’s heart stuttered and Will hurried back, his spine pressing against the mantle. 

“And not in a mason jar either,” Hannibal smoothly noted before gesturing toward a chair and exiting the room. Will took a deep gulp, gasping as it burned his throat and settled into his belly, a hot churning sickness that threatened to rise up and tumble over his lips. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. 

“Will, please, sit,” Hannibal commanded as he walked in bearing two plates. Will hastily sat down and Hannibal placed a steaming plate in front of him. Will’s jaw all but dropped when he saw the artfully arrangement of flank steak, slightly rare and dripping juices, a swirl of red, green, and white inside, with asparagus on one side and hasselback potatoes on the other. 

“This is too fine for me,” Will got out as Hannibal took his seat close to Will. 

“Nothing is too fine for my best student,” Hannibal countered. He raised his glass. “To Will Graham, one of the finest minds at our little university.” Will grimaced, his cheeks flushed red, as he clinked his glass with Hannibal. Hannibal hummed his approval after taking a sip.

“Delicious scotch. I’m surprised a student can afford such things,” he commented as he cut into his meat precisely. 

“I don’t exactly live off much else but coffee,” he mumbled.

“And why is that Will? Is it the stress of teaching or the stress of research?” 

Will sighed. “Are you here to psychoanalyze me?” He stared at Hannibal directly. Boldly, he thought. Hannibal patted his lips with his napkin before resting his knife and fork near the top of the plate. 

“No, of course not, Will. I know you have anxiety. I can see it in your sweaty forehead, in your labored breathing, in your shying away from your colleagues,” Hannibal stated, meeting Will’s gaze fully. Will struggled not to avert his eyes. “But you also hide from me and I am your mentor. You actively sought me out, did you not?” Will nodded, closing his eyes and letting out a little whimper. “Your graduate school application named me specifically. You wanted to study under me. Yet you refuse to come to dinner with your fellow students. You don’t visit me during research hours, preferring to communicate by email. You have not returned phone calls, which is quite rude, Will Graham. So tell me. What is it that you want from me?” 

Will licked his lips. “Why did you leave an apple on my desk?”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Hannibal rumbled. 

“You’re stalking me,” Will whispered, his voice as dry as the leaves rustling in the trees. “You leave me gifts on my desk. An apple today. Coffee last week. A sandwich in my office two weeks ago. You leave polite voicemails but I can hear the need in them. Perhaps the question is--what do you want from me?” Hannibal reclined in his seat, swirling the scotch in the glass. He contemplated Will quite openly, his gaze roving over Will. Taking in his sweat stained flannel shirt and wrinkled khakis, his old boots with the left shoe peeling away from the bottom. 

“When I read your application, Will, I imagined you were seeking a mentor. I often wondered if you were seeking a parental figure. It sounds...I’m embarrassed to say but I pressed your colleague, Frederick, to divulge the contents of your therapy session with him.” Will frowned as he recalled the exercises they did in the practicing therapy course. Frederick Chilton was an officious acolyte, an assistant for another professor. Will could easily see him talking to Hannibal, telling himself that the famous Hannibal Lecter sought him out. Will hid a smile. 

“Your mother died. Your father wasn’t interested in you. You were a shining star in all of your courses, I imagine. I read over your recommendation letters from Yale. What is the phrase? Ah yes, they were glowing. Will Graham,” Hannibal toasted him, almost mockingly. “Could be a bright mind. If only he got over his own fear.”

Will shifted angrily in his seat. “And is that what you propose to do? Help me get over my fear?” He observed Hannibal, his glare baleful, and the older man took it in stride. He took another sip of scotch and sat up straight, picking up his knife and fork again. He pointed his fork at Will’s still hands. 

“The food is growing cold. And it is rude not to eat a meal prepared especially for you.” Hannibal smiled glibly and, his lip curling, Will began sawing away at the meal. His adviser frowned, opened his mouth, and, seeming to think better of it, shrugged almost imperceptibly. 

They finished the meal in silence. Will mumbled his thanks and stood up hastily, almost knocking over his chair. Hannibal grabbed his wrist. Will gaped at him, his brows shooting up. 

“Will, let us not end this way. Please join me for coffee in the study.” 

Will spluttered. “You have a study?”

“I believe in living a life of comfort, so yes.”

“Why aren’t you married?,” Will demanded. Hannibal stood and tugged down his waistcoat.

“That is a rude question, Will. We are not yet at that stage of our relationship where you may ask these questions.” Hannibal did not look at Will as he spoke. He collected the plates, his eyes everywhere but on Will. “The study is across the hall and to the right. You will know it when you see it. Please wait for me there.” 

Will backed away, watching Hannibal slowly pile the plates on top of one another and stand up to walk into the kitchen. Swallowing hard and debating just running out the door, Will pushed down his fear. A tangible thing that lay coiled around his guts, squeezing him, hold him in a vise tight grip. The straitjacket he wore everyday and dammit, he wanted it gone. He wanted freedom from it, even if for a few moments.

He wondered what that freedom would feel like. 

He wandered into Hannibal’s study, drinking in the dark wood tones, the sage green walls, the fire low in the grate. The walls were lined with shelves, filled but not crammed with books and a few carefully placed sculptures. He took a seat in one of the high backed chairs by the fire and ran his hands up and down his thighs. He weighed his options, weighed the cost of asking a professor whose work he admired to help him. To even just be able to sleep at night for a few hours, not the half awake nodding off that he managed. 

Hannibal strode into the room bearing a tray. He placed it on the small table beside another chair and knelt by the fire, stoking it up. 

“I think you take cream and sugar. Both are on the tray,” he said stiffy. Will licked his lips and opened his mouth.

“Dr. Lecter..”

“Hannibal.”

“Hannibal,” Will amended. “I’m sorry. I...I want to be free of this fear.”

“Why do you have such fear Will?”

Will hesitated, looking up from the floor, his breath arrested as he met Hannibal’s. His clear eyes, amber in the reflective light of the fire. Placid. Unassuming. 

“I can get into anyone’s head,” Will confessed. “I can assume their point of view completely.” He expected Hannibal to scoff, to point out that the oddity of the statement. But he said nothing. He only rose to pour a little cream into his coffee. He looked back at Will calmly. 

“Pure empathy,” he pronounced. “And, of course, if you can assume their point of view completely, you get lost in it. No way back out. Is that your thought or someone else’s?”

“Yes, yes,” Will nodded enthusiastically. Hannibal pressed the mug into Will’s hand and took his seat across from him. 

“Will, let me be honest.”

“Why not?,” Will joked, on the edge of too earnest. 

Hannibal frowned. “You’ve lost weight since you’ve arrived. You almost always smell like scotch or whiskey. Your writing has become almost erratic but your clinical observations have been exceptionally acute. I wonder why you chose psychiatry.”

Will let out a short dry laugh. “Me too.”

“It seems to me with your empathy that a profession with limited contact would be ideal.” Hannibal paused to take a sip. “But, of course, that is your decision.” Will stared into the fire, cupping the coffee and holding it under his nose to breath in the rich aroma. 

“I don’t want to quit,” he whispered. “I want to stay.”  Hannibal shifted in his chair, leaned forward and laid one hand on Will’s knee. 

“Then you need help. I can be your help, Will.” Will swallowed hard and hesitantly turned his head to look into Hannibal’s face. He’s a predator, Will realized, and wondered if all of tonight was a game. 

“How?,” he asked almost skeptically, almost hopefully. 

“I can help you manage your fear and get through your courses. You will finish in a year. I can help you do that,” Hannibal breathed, his voice rough. Will ran his tongue over his bottom lip, watching Hannibal track every movement. 

“Why?”

“Yours is a unique mind. I would like to study it.” Will shrank back and Hannibal grasped his wrist. “Not for gain, Will. But to help you. And because I see a potential for genius within you. As long as we can free you from your fear.” They stared at each other, Hannibal surprisingly strong for a psychiatry professor. Will trembled and Hannibal shifted his grip, loosened, retreated back into his chair. 

“I’ll think about it,” Will whispered. 

“Do,” Hannibal prompted. “The only thing you have to lose is your fear.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Dinners at Hannibal’s house became the new normal for Will Graham. He was there at least twice a week and found himself growing comfortable in the rooms, often arriving a bit early to sit by the fire in the study. He could breathe in that space, he discovered, a slight loosening in his belly, his lungs expanding to gulp in air greedily. 

Hannibal did not seem unhappy to have Will taking up more space. He often invited Will into the kitchen to demonstrate how he prepared meals. More of a show really, Will thought, as he hovered on the threshold, watching Hannibal slice and dice, tilt a pan with liquor toward the flame, or toss a crepe into the air for an impromptu dessert. 

“You really must come to one of the dinner parties with the faculty,” Hannibal suggested as Will spooned the sanguinaccio dolce into his mouth. Will had watched with one eye as the chocolate pudding had been ladled into hollowed shells of oranges and served with ladyfingers. The other eye was on the snow falling furiously outside and Will contemplated if he could return home.

Will eagerly took another mouthful of the sweet, slightly tangy dessert and Hannibal smirked.

“Won’t you at least consider the possibility of dinner with colleagues?,” he pressed.  Will stilled. He couldn’t answer the possibility, couldn’t not follow the threads of thought as he envisioned himself in a suit, the proper distance from another graduate student. The sweat sticking to Will’s back and brow, the grating voices as peers preened and sniped at one another. Will couldn’t put into words the alarm that snaked its way into his blood, digging its hooks into him, stitching his lips together. Instead, he just gave a small shake and stirred the remainder of his pudding. Hannibal observed him from hooded eyes, taking the measure of the student in front of him. A pleasing and intoxicating mixture of fear, resistance, resilience, passivity, and aggression. 

“You would prefer that we keep our sessions private then,” Hannibal murmured and Will nodded eagerly. Holding back a small smile, Hannibal weighed his options. And then, leaning forward, he reached across and swiped at the chocolate at the corner of Will’s mouth before bringing his finger back to his own, a small red tongue darting out to lick the chocolate off his thumb. Will watched, shock and desire warring within him, blazing out of his bright eyes, and Hannibal suppressed a shiver. 

“That...that…,” Will stuttered. Hannibal rose smoothly and collected the plates. He glanced out the window, at the harsh and foreboding December sky, and the snow falling in thick and heavy flakes. 

“You will most likely need to stay here tonight,” Hannibal intoned. “The roads were bad when you arrived and are worse now. It would be reckless to venture out.”

“As reckless as what you just did?,” Will challenged.

“Nothing I do is reckless with you, Will. Unlike that dissertation you turned in. Do you really think that paper will pass the boards? It will likely get you committed.” Will gasped and stood quickly, his chair falling over. 

“Is that a threat?,” he demanded. 

“Merely an observation. I am offering to assist you, Will, in turning rather too prescient observations into an acceptable research paper that may even become published.”

“In return for what?,” Will seethed.  Hannibal exited the room and Will followed, anger vibrating his thin frame.  

“Is this some sort of sick set up? You blackmail me into spending the night for passing my dissertation?”

“No,” Hannibal curtly replied. “No amount of blackmail could induce me to accept that...drivel. It was an intriguing idea wrapped in banal prose. Provocative. You slip into minds of murderers with ease. It would be a terrifying read, if written correctly.”

“Terrifying enough to commit me,” Will acerbically countered and Hannibal shrugged, an oddly feline movement. He turned on the water and began washing the dishes. Will rolled his eyes and sullenly moved next to him to begin drying the plates. 

“It is all how you frame an argument, Will. I can help you with the framing, the design,” Hannibal said. “If you ask.” He looked over at Will, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his skin slick with steam rising from the sink. Will paused, gripping a plate tightly through the cloth. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes tracking over his body, resting on his chest, his throat, his mouth. He wondered what Hannibal was thinking, if Will could even understand the mind of someone who wasn’t deranged. 

Although, perhaps to call Hannibal neurotypical would also be inaccurate. 

“You created profiles recently for local police officers as part of an assignment I gave you,” Hannibal began quietly, methodically washing a wine glass. “Your reviews were thorough and fascinating. You could be quite useful in the field, Will. Or as a researcher. The right dissertation, you could have your choice.” He handed the glass to Will. Will bared his teeth at him, ferocious, flailing. 

“You don’t need to bait the hook, Dr. Lecter,” he snarled. He rubbed the glass viciously until it cracked and he carefully sat it on the counter, backing away, his hands shaking. Hannibal looked at the glass, then over at Will, pressed against the kitchen island, chest heaving, eyes roving in panic. He stepped away from the sink and wiped his hands on a towel before moving to stand in front of Will, looking down at the smaller man. 

“You don’t need to be afraid of what you want, Will.”

“I’m not,” his voice cracked. 

“You are,” Hannibal corrected, placing his hand on Will’s shoulder. It should have been comforting, Will thought, but it felt as if he were being caged in. 

“You have to maintain boundaries, Hannibal,” Will cautioned.

“All you have to do is ask, Will.” Hannibal’s breath skimmed across Will’s cheeks and Will was ashamed that he inhaled it, savoring the heat of the bourbon with the sharpness of mint. Hannibal squeezed Will’s shoulder, lightly, affectionately. 

“I am asking,” he got out, shuddering slightly. Hannibal seemed to sigh and stepped away, his hand gliding down Will’s arm. 

“Come into the study, Will,” he invited, draining the sink and strolling to the door, holding it up. Arms wrapped around his belly, as if to hold himself in, Will ambled after him, eyes on the ground. 

“Now, now, Will,” Hannibal tutted. “What do you think you gave in to?” He placed his hand on Will’s lower back and guided him into the study. The snow fell furiously outside, piling up against the window panes. The fire cracked loudly as the logs shifted. Hannibal guided Will to his customary chair before striding to the sideboard and pouring a whiskey for Will and a brandy for himself. He offered Will the tumbler who ignored it, staring into the fire with a forlorn expression on his face. 

“What does asking your help mean, Dr. Lecter?,” he asked bleakly. Hannibal raised the brandy to his nose and inhaled deeply, noting the vanilla highlights and floral undertones. A much more pleasant scent than the aftershave Will insisted on plastering to his face. 

“What do you want it to mean, Will?”

“You offered and now you want me to set the terms of the contract?,” Will demanded through gritted teeth. 

“Isn’t it easier?”

“You’re my adviser. Your help shouldn’t come with a price.”

“Even you don’t believe that Will. Especially as your dissertation suggests that you know more about murderers than can be gleaned from simple paperwork. I understand how you work. My colleagues will not. And they will see you as either something to fear or something to exploit.”

“Papers published with details carefully hiding my identity,” Will spat, longing for his cold studio apartment, the empty twin bed underneath the windows. Away from this place now suddenly alien to him. 

“But we will know,” Hannibal agreed, crossing his legs, aware that Will is drifting away from him. “What I want to offer you is safety, Will.” Will jerked up, staring at Hannibal, lips slightly parted. “You need to learn to manage this empathy and how to work in a clinical environment. And, quite frankly, you need someone to take care of you. You’re no longer as pale as you were when you first joined me for dinner several weeks ago. But you’re underweight and malnourished. A few of your students have come to complain to me about your erratic nature in the classroom. I wonder about your apartment. I doubt there is little more than canned food and whiskey in your cupboards.”

“And what? You want me to move in here and eat your overly dressed meals and participate in therapy sessions with you?,” Will spluttered. Hannibal cocked his head.

“It sounds so sordid when you put it like that, Will. I merely am offering my assistance.”

“In so many ways.” The sarcasm was thick and neither men ignore it. 

“And yet you refuse it. What satisfaction does that give you?” Will snorted and looked away, grabbing the whiskey and draining the glass dry in one swallow. He knew what Hannibal was asking, was aware of his own deteriorating health. He was aware of how hard it was to stay focused while teaching when all of his students’ emotions and thoughts pressed at him, slipped into him, until he could hardly tell if he was nervous about giving homework or receiving it. Boundaries were blurring. 

They would be blurred in this arrangement. 

They were already blurred. 

Hannibal cleared his throat. “It’s late now, Will. Let me show you to your room.” Will followed him out of the study and up the stairs. He wondered which room was Hannibal’s as his professor led him to a smaller room at the east corner, facing out into the woods behind the house. The room was charming with a white and blue quilt on the full size bed and wainscoting on the walls. 

“The bathroom is next door. I have some pajamas you may borrow, if you like,” Hannibal said. Will nodded jerkily and sank onto the bed, relishing the lack of squeaks it gave off. It was firm beneath him, solid. He wondered if this is where Hannibal wanted to stash him. He wondered if this is where he could sleep every night. 

Hannibal returned with a pair of plaid pajamas that Will tried not to accept reluctantly. They bid each other good night, Will locking the door. He leaned against the door and sighed, thinking about the way Hannibal’s eyes roved over his body. 

He was a student. 

He was so close to finishing his program, to proving to himself that he wasn’t white trash, doomed to follow a distant father from place to place. If he did well, he thought, he could have all the middle class wants his bolshevik heart detested. 

Will understood that the pleasure lay in rejecting what he could have, not what he couldn’t. And he wanted that. 

He wanted the ability to build forts to keep his sense of self safe. 

He snuggled down into the mattress, reveled in the richness of the cotton sheets against his skin, the softness of the plaid pajamas. He could reject all of this, he mused. Or, he could find some place at Hannibal’s knee and accept it. 

He could feel the ghost of Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder, his back, his lips. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the flavor of Hannibal’s cologne resting there, marking him, nestled in the corner of his mouth.  His heart beat a strange tattoo in his chest and he expected his body to tighten. But the strange fear didn’t come, the constriction around his chest loosened and he exhaled. Inhale, exhale, fully, deeply. 

Will pulled the covers up to his chest and sank into a fitful sleep. He woke up to the snow still falling and the smell of coffee. He slowly rose and shambled downstairs into the kitchen where Hannibal was mixing eggs. While wearing a dressing gown, Will smirked. 

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal greeted, pointing to a cup and saucer on the counter.  He continued to whisk eggs, the metal scraping against the glass bowl. Will leaned against the doorframe.

“Help me,” he said. Hannibal paused, his whisk no longer moving. Hannibal looked up and met Will’s gaze, a faint smile in his unfathomable eyes. 

“A good morning indeed,” he said, coming around the island to take Will’s hand in his hand and to lead him to the island, one hand resting on Will’s back. “I look forward to showing you what asking for my help means.” 

“Are we still sustaining possibilities, professor?,” Will asked with a lopsided smile. Hannibal titled his head. 

“I would much rather increase our possibilities than end them wouldn’t you?”

“So you are flirting with me.” Will’s gaze was steady and Hannibal gave that odd feline shrug again. Will smiled and took a sip of coffee, trying to ignore the racing of his heart and the falling away of the fort walls around him. 


End file.
